Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 128488 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128488 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Of course, she didn’t know that they’d wallowed in their own filth—and that of other strangers, too, though she hardly wanted to bring that to mind—for over a month once and lived to tell the tale.
Evan slid in next to her, his thigh pressing against hers. The interior of the booth smelled like old vomit and bleach and something sweet, but she didn’t think it smelled like a dead body, and so things could be a lot worse. “I’m a private investigator in Reno,” Evan said. “I’ve been looking into what I believe is a series of crimes, not only because I believe they might be ongoing, but because we”—he gestured between himself and Noelle—“were victims of the group of criminals orchestrating these crimes.”
“You were locked in cages like animals?” Tallulah asked.
“Yes,” Noelle said. “And asked to make sick choices between hurting the other person or being hurt ourselves.”
Tallulah watched Noelle for a moment from beneath the curtain of her jewel-studded lashes. “Yeah, that’s what they did to me,” she finally said.
“We read your police report,” Evan told her. “They didn’t take your claim seriously.”
“Listen, good-lookin’, I’m a prostitute with a drug past and an arrest record as long as my lashes.” She offered a smirk, batting said lashes, but her smile quickly faded. “They never take women like me seriously. They told me I needed to get off the streets and stop going home with perverts. True enough, right? Like I’m gonna disagree? Maybe you got a real nice penthouse and a bag of cash I could live off of for a few years. Get me off the street? I asked the cop.” She leaned in, her bangles clicking on the chipped brown or gray or dark-green tabletop as she laced her hands in front of herself. “But this wasn’t some weird pervert. And believe me, I’ve had my share of those. One guy I went home with when I first got started in the business locked me in his basement for a week and took advantage six ways to Sunday. That’s another story altogether, right? But this was different. This was . . . organized, I guess.”
Evan and Noelle looked at each other, and Evan nodded at Tallulah. “Yes, ours too.” He told her the basics of what had happened to them, waking in darkness, caged, asked to sacrifice the other in various ways. He made it brief. Which was good so he wouldn’t potentially lead her story, but he also obviously wanted Tallulah to trust him and be honest about what had happened to her. Noelle knew just by watching him that he was good at his job. Naturally empathetic. Easy to open up to. And it was clear to Noelle that Tallulah had good reason not to trust those who’d listened to her story before. Or half listened anyway.
“Wow,” Tallulah said once he’d wrapped up, her eyes moving between them. “You escaped. You burned that shit to the ground.” She looked vaguely impressed, raising her hand and leaning around the booth before yelling, “Stan, a round back here.”
They waited a minute as Stan shuffled their way, coming to stand at the head of the table.
“The usual,” Tallulah said, setting her gaze on Noelle and raising her arched brows higher.
“Vodka tonic,” Noelle answered the unspoken question, even though she wasn’t really in the drinking mood, and it was still before 2:00 p.m. But if Tallulah wanted to share a round, they should probably share a round.
Stan turned his empty gaze to Evan, who ordered a beer on draft.
“I got out, too,” Tallulah said. “Not in such a badass way, but I did.”
“I think if you got out at all, you’re allowed to claim badass status,” Noelle said.
Tallulah tipped her chin.
“We’d love to hear about how you got out,” Noelle said. “But first, who was in there with you?”
“Another dried-up old prostitute,” Tallulah said, and despite the insult, there was obvious affection in her voice, and a heavy dose of sadness. “Iris. Real name, too, just like mine. Some people don’t believe my name is really Tallulah, but it is. Tallulah and Iris, we said. Iris and Tallulah. Sounds like one of those froufrou clothing lines for babies who don’t ever play in dirt. Poor things.” She looked away, but Noelle saw the brief flash of grief. She was pretty sure that expression had not been in response to the poor germ-insulated babies but rather to the mention of Iris.
Another prostitute.
Interesting.
“What happened to Iris?” she asked.
“She didn’t make it out,” Tallulah said. “They shot her in the back. She was behind me. Right behind me. We were almost to the door. Old bat was slow as molasses.” She put her face in her hands for a moment before sitting upright, expression grieved as her shoulders raised and lowered.
Stan arrived at the table with their drinks on a tray, and Noelle was grateful for the timing and that it gave Tallulah a chance to compose herself.